


We turn to ashes so something else can grow

by Analinea



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Feral Behavior, Happy Ending, Hunters, M/M, Missing Derek, Not Canon Compliant, Spark Stiles, and fluff, mention of blood and dead bodies but nothing really graphic, reverse bang 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 10:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11206656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Analinea/pseuds/Analinea
Summary: Stiles wakes up with pain in his chest and a phone call that might explain it: Derek went missing.





	We turn to ashes so something else can grow

**Author's Note:**

> FIRST OF ALL: all the thanks to Cami for betaing this work, you're da best and I love you!! <3
> 
> SECOND OF ALL: the bigest kudos to the wonderful people that made the sterek reverse bang possible and to [rumi-nyo](http://rumi-nyo.tumblr.com) for the art and inspiration for this fanfic that I really really hope will be a good read <3 
> 
> Allons-y :3

No one knows that Stiles is here. Well, no one that can _actively_ help him anyway; and even then he's been completely alone since he stepped inside the forest: the only person that knows of Stiles’ whereabouts isn't allowed past the boundaries of the Nemeton's territory.

He's very aware that at this very moment, the Pack is waiting for him to get to Scott's house to regroup and start planning. Any minute now, they'll be calling him to know where he is. He won't answer. His phone is in the Jeep, now a couple of miles behind him, GPS on so that after the third missed call Isaac can use Danny's software to track him. He's not completely stupid.

He still has an hour on them: half and hour to get to where the Jeep's parked and another half to track him all the way to his destination. It'll spoil the surprise to lead them there, but something bigger is at stake.

All in all, it gives him time to...

He doesn't know to do what exactly. The decision to set off alone in the Preserve at night wasn't even a completely conscious one, which would freak him out if he wasn't already scared shitless by what made him take it.

That's the kind of situation that made him reject his Spark completely in the first place and why he can't even control mountain ash anymore. _The mind is a powerful tool for magic_ , Deaton had said, _and as powerful against it_. Well, sue him for hating the feeling of losing control of his own body.

And anyway, clearly the magic inside of him still finds ways to surface; case in point: just like Lydia finding dead bodies, Stiles is following some instinct. He hates the analogy, considering.

It's like an invisible, cold string attached right behind his breastbone that's pulling him forward, replacing the golden warmth of the Pack bond that vanished less than an hour ago. Since he woke up, Stiles has been ignoring the pain of it with more or less success.

Anyway, Stiles lets himself follow his magic. Just this once, because he's really desperate. Then he's done with it for good.

 

 

So, Stiles is alone in the Preserve with only a torch and the moon to light his path. As much as he feels like it's a stupid ass decision on his instinct's part to come without backup, he's not scared of the forest. The noises make it feel safe instead of threatening.

Stiles himself isn't the most discreet at the moment, even though he learned a few tricks from reliable sources -the Pack- on how to be quiet. But the pain in his chest makes it harder to move. He's panting and sweating and generally exhausted, which he's not used to being anymore for this kind of easy exercise.

He's relieved when he finally sees more light in front of him, the trees stopping to make room for a big clearing. As he walks, windows catch the moonlight and glisten; a dark rooftop slowly takes shape until Stiles is standing at the tree line and the whole house is visible. He puts the torch back in his bag.

Part of the building is still bare bones and half finished walls; it makes it look like a forgotten beast. The summer soundtrack of animals and insects buzzing and flying around added to the sound of the stream that runs a few feet to the left of the house gives the place a peaceful aura, like holy ground instead of the tomb it used to be.

Stiles walks up to the house, any noise fading in the background as he watches out for movement from inside. He's more and more terrified, the calming effect of the earth and the trees seeping out of him with each step he takes.

As soon as Stiles pokes his head through the door he _knows_ that something's not right: the air shifts, unnaturally still. He retreats, stays frozen for a second looking inside. From this side, the moonlight only goes as far as the rectangle of light it casts on the floor, Stiles' silhouette fuzzily cut in it. The moment feels eerie.

He breathes in, out. Steps inside.

As his eyes get use to the darkness, his heart starts beating frantically. Stiles controls his breathing but it doesn't ease down his pulse hitting like a hammer on everything that hurts.

The next breath Stiles takes is as shaky as his hands. He hates it, hates the terror coursing through his veins. He doesn't want to find a dead body tonight, doesn't want the severed bond to mean that–

“Derek?” he calls to interrupt his train of thought, tremors in his voice. He clutches at his shirt over his heart, swallows around the lump in his throat. He looks down briefly to step over a toolbox, contents scattered around it in a mess he recognizes as his own.

“Derek,” he calls again, weakly now. Grasping at the last threads of hope that he'll get an answer. His magic wanted him to come here; he tells himself it means something.

The low growl that comes from the far corner of the room startles him. Like cutting a puppet's strings, Stiles feels his shoulders drop and his knees go weak in relief. He found out months ago that he never mistakes Derek for someone else.

“Derek?” he asks more steadily, confused about what actually happened. The loft–

Two bright red dots light up and stare directly at him. The growling increases; Stiles stills. He knows the difference between playful and threatening. Relief turns into dread in the pit of his stomach.

“What did you do to Derek?” he addresses the whole room, his voice cracking, never breaking eye contact with Derek. There's no answer, no evil laughter, no hunter emerging dramatically from the shadows. Stiles stumbles back. He's usually more cool headed in situations like these but it's not only about Derek's life being on the line anymore.

He panics.

The growling turns into a howl of rage a second before a massive black shape jumps right at Stiles. He runs.

 

 

Stiles jerks awake knowing deep in his bones that something is wrong, incapable of placing the feeling with his brain still foggy from sleep. He goes to get up but feels stilted like some foundation of his world is missing; all he can do is roll out of bed and fall on his knees, one hand holding him up and the other going to grasp at his shirt over his heart.

There's an ache there that doesn't recede, grows into pain. He gasps, beads of sweat rolling down the ridge of his nose to fall on the floor under him.

His phone rings on the night stand, the sound reaching his ears over the loud thumping of his heart. Stiles has no idea if it coincidentally rings after he woke up feeling this bad, of if a first missed call is what woke him up in the first place.

He searches blindly for the phone once he manages to let go of the fabric of his shirt. He's so busy trying to catch his breath that he doesn't look up to follow the screen's light, feeling so dizzy and disorientated he figures raising his head wouldn't be the best of ideas anyway.

The ringtone stops playing. He swallows around his frantic breaths, fingers clasped on the edge of the night stand to anchor himself to something because he's feeling himself drifting.

It's the phone ringing again that brings him back down to earth and this time his fingers close around it. He doesn't care that he knocks half his stuff to the ground in the process of bringing the device to his ear.

“Scott?” Stiles breathlessly asks, knowing without checking the caller ID that it'll be him.

“–iles!” Scott's voice comes from far away and sounds frantic like it's not the first time he's been saying Stiles' name. “Stiles are you okay? Answer me!”

Stiles suddenly finds himself back in the dreamed basement of Eichen House, shivering and calling Scott–

“Stiles!”

“Yeah, Scott,” Stiles stammers out, “something– wrong. Something's wrong, I don't know–” A sob tears its way out of his throat. With every new second a hole digs itself deeper inside of his chest, and he can't focus enough to figure out what's happening.

“Dammit, he shouldn't feel that,” Stiles hears, but Scott's talking to someone else, “You shouldn't feel that,” Scott repeats to him, tone urgent. His best friend is worried but not like he understands that Stiles is being _hollowed out_ right now.

“It's the bond,” Scott explains, pulling Stiles back in the present when his mind was desperately trying to detach itself from the pain, “Isaac feels it too. I didn't think you would feel it,” he says and he doesn't mean it like that but Stiles feels the unspoken _because you're only human_ like an arrow to the chest.

Or, well, he would if he wasn't already in agonizing pain.

Stiles takes a deep breath, slowly getting control back over himself. “The bond?” he asks in a shaky voice.

“Derek's bond,” Scott starts, and that's when Stiles finally understands.

“It's gone,” he finishes for of Scott. Then he can't breathe at all.

 

 

It was a windy day as Derek loved them, the fresh breeze ruffling his hair and drying the sweat that clung to his skin.

He couldn't help but lean into it, closing his eyes, face turned to the sky. A soft noise made him turn to find Stiles carrying a toolbox, and Derek smiled. They had been working on the house for two weeks now, even though Derek had started alone a few days before that. Stiles wasn't supposed to know about the house, but, well, it was Stiles.

Derek was grateful for his stubbornness, because the company was more enjoyable than his own lonely brooding.

They didn't talk much, especially on days like these: the wind took the place the conversation should fill, and it was soothing to be silent together. To know that the silence between them could be comfortable, too.

Hours went by with only the sound of them working together, leaving Derek enough head-space to think about Stiles being so close that he could feel the air move between them, lighting every nerve under his skin and sending electricity all the way to his heart.

 

 

“Hunters,” Allison says, leaning on Stiles wall. It's not weird anymore to see her in his bedroom, and he's used to the way her presence is making the hot summer temperature drop significantly by now.

“How do you know?” Stiles asks, packing things with trembling hands. The panic attack left him queasy; but it's the pain of the severed Pack bond that feels like an earthquake just took over his body and left only ruins behind.

He focuses on the task at hand and Allison's intake of breath before she exposes the facts, to avoid thinking about words like _losing a Pack member is like losing a limb_.

“I went to the loft,” Allison starts, and Stiles pushes down the urge to ask her if she can teleport, “there was a fleur-de-lis painted on the wall, Banski's style, like with a stencil. It's the mark of a family of hunters from Québec.”

Stiles blinks, straightens up. “What else?” There's this feeling in his guts that he has to go to the Preserve to find Derek, and to go alone; but maybe it's not so much his magic talking as wishful thinking. Maybe Allison found Derek at the loft. No breath left in him.

“He wasn't there,” she answers, and Stiles lets out a breath, “they don't kill on sight. Their idea of hunting is more...like a game,” she finishes grimly. Stiles feels his blood boil with anger at the idea of it. Derek running, being chased by hunters. Doesn't he deserve a reprieve from this kind of shit? Like, a permanent one.

Stiles turns to Allison and she has this look on her face, _sympathy_ , and he hates it. It's the kind of face people gave him at his mother's funeral and it makes him feel like Allison doesn't really believe that Derek is still alive, that she's just humoring him out of pity.

He shakes off the anger that makes his magic stir even more. He's really not a fan of losing control, especially after a panic attack. Especially in front of Allison who's only there because of him and the last time he lost himself.

Stiles swallows around the memories of the Nogitsune, looks away from Allison's pale and almost transparent form. He's still not sure why she appears to him and not Lydia. He didn't ask.

“Scott said, uh,” he breathes in and out, “Scott said that everybody felt the bond disappearing. I'm the only one that feels it that bad apparently,” which still baffles him if he's honest. He doesn't doubt his place in the Pack, and he certainly doesn't doubt his own kind of attachment to Derek. But he didn't think–

“And then you lied to him and said you'd meet them at his house, didn't you?” Allison sighs knowingly. Stiles looks down at his backpack thoughtfully. Images of Derek being hunted through the wood, blood, fire, it all plays out in his mind. He can't bear it. He shrugs.

“You know me too well, Alli.” He shoulders his bag and leaves.

 

 

They were all together at the loft, and for once they acted like a Pack. Not that they didn't before, but they had to be a Pack at war for so long that it was a relief to see they could be one at peace too. No crisis, no fight, just laughter and games.

It warmed Derek's heart to see his Betas be teenagers, to note that they hadn't been completely ruined by this life his family had dragged them into.

Stiles approached the desk Derek was leaning on in a corner of the room. He was looking better, the long months before summer allowing him to heal, mostly physically but also a whole lot mentally, thanks to the Pack helping him through his recovery.

“I thought werewolves didn't feel the alcohol?” Stiles asked with a smile, jerking his head in the direction of Derek's hand. He looked down at the glass bottle in his hand, an European brand of beer that was a bitch to find. He couldn't even pronounce the name on the label.

“We don't, I just like drinking these,” Derek explained, looking back at Stiles. The human wrinkled his nose like he couldn't understand how anyone could like beer just for the taste, making Derek huff out a laugh. He turned the bottle in his hand and lost himself in memories for half a second, and before he knew it he was saying, “My mom and dad used to buy this brand all the time.”

He remembered being six or seven years old, his dad letting him take one swallow of the head and laughing when Derek grimaced. It was bitter but he came back every time to ask his dad to let him have a taste. His mom used to chuckle, say, “He's too young to drink this,” and his dad would always answer with, “It's not like he can get drunk anyway,” and laugh.

When Derek raised his head again, feeling amazed at how easy it always was to open up to Stiles, the man was watching him in wonder. Noticing Derek looking back, he schooled his features and smiled, although there was sadness at the edge of it. Derek tended to forget that Stiles understood this kind of nostalgia too.

“Fancy,” Stiles said, leaning on the desk next to him. It took a second for Derek to understand that he meant the beer and not the memory, brain frozen from feeling him so close.

Derek cleared his throat. “German, I think,” he just replied, voice absent, wondering why they were still talking about beer. With the Pack so close, it suddenly felt awkward. He wished he knew how to keep alive the comfort of the days spent together fixing the house.

Because now every word Derek was failing to say felt stilted, too big, too loud. In the hours of the day, they felt just perfect, like Derek could give them to Stiles and receive something equal in return. If only he was brave enough to just speak them up.

“Dude!” Scott called from where he was being tackled and tickled by Erica and Isaac. Stiles chuckled and said something back that Derek didn't really hear. The moment was broken. The wind stole the words away.

 

 

The house looms gloomily in the dark, despite Stiles knowing exactly how non-threatening it looks in broad daylight. Stiles tries to calm his frantic breath and wills the tremors in his limbs to stop. He clenches his fists and his jaw in an attempt to feel braver. It doesn't work.

He's sure of one thing: Derek is here.

For a moment, catching his breath, Stiles sees the last months play in front of his eyes, when Derek was just _there_ for him, not trying hard to make him talk or laugh, but just there. He's also forever grateful that the Alpha took care of Scott losing Allison when Stiles was in no mental shape to do that himself.

Stiles thinks of those feelings that had been there for a while, way before the Nogitsune; how he wants to confess his love to Derek but how he's still too scared to do it. Shouldn't being possessed and almost dying have made him more brave about these things? Waste no time and all.

And then the house. He swore to Derek he would keep it a secret until it was done, so they could surprise the Pack with it, and then he offered his help. It's not repayment for all those months when Derek was there for him, it's simply a good reason for Stiles to spend all his time with him.

Even more than that, he just wants to take part in rebuilding something that matters so much, and because it matters so much _to Derek_ makes it all the more important for Stiles. He can't do big construction stuff but he's good with his hands and learns fast.

Being here with Derek, doing physical work, it's where he feels most at peace.

He sighs, nods to himself, and starts advancing on the house again. Dry earth crunches under the soles of his shoes. Big bags of fresh soil lean against the porch steps, ready to be spread; Derek plans for all the Pack to garden together, has everything ready for it.

Stiles had laughed when Derek told him that, said he killed every plant he ever touched, even cacti.

Derek had eyed him with a grin. _Maybe you just don't believe enough that you can make beautiful things_.

Stiles is still speechless when he thinks about that, but the words stir something bittersweet in him. First of all, he wants to throw the words back at Derek, because if Stiles if the pot, Derek is definitely the kettle.

Second of all...Stiles doesn't want to believe, and that's the point. He doesn't want anything to do with his Spark. It's been his only disagreement with Scott and Derek for the last few months.

Stiles walks up the porch steps. As soon as he leans his head inside through the door, he knows something's really wrong.

 

 

Derek waits. He waits for so long. There's a whole in his chest where his Pack should be and it's all he can feel. When he comes back to his senses it's always for a short time -shorter and shorter- and all he can see then is blood.

When pain becomes the new normal, he holds on to good memories of the Pack. But they're gone. It hurts so much.

There's still a tenuous link that he's sure has Stiles on the other end. It's distorted by this trap he's in, this prison he can't leave. All he knows is: Stiles is alive.

Stiles and his laughter, his bad jokes, the twinkle in his eyes, the way he can make Derek's heart quiet down or go mad. Stiles, and the last night they saw each other. They were at the loft with the Pack and they only had time to talk about beer of all things. Will it forever be the last thing they said to each other?

No. No, Derek remembers. Just before Stiles left, still smelling of the wind and the forest, and a little bit of Derek from their time together building this house, Derek had said, “I'll see you tomorrow, right?”

He couldn't have imagined the pleasure in Stiles' eyes, the love in his smile. Even out of his mind, knowing that Stiles is still alive is a relief.

Until it's not. Derek waits. Tomorrow comes and goes. Derek waits.

Pain turns to hatred. Good memories turn to dust. Just before he had left, that last night, Stiles had looked at Derek with love in his smile and had said, “Promise.”

 

 

Stiles stumbles on the toolbox and lands in a pool of something cold and thick. He doesn't stop to see what it is, just gets a glimpse of a pile of dark forms on the floor before he gets up and scrambles for the door. He's not sure how he knows Derek won't be able to get out, maybe it's simple logic -if he could, he would've already.

Stiles lunges outside, landing heavily on the porch, breath knocked out of his lungs. Pain vaguely registers in his back.

Behind him, he hears Derek snarl and claw at the floor. Stiles pushes himself half up and rolls, hissing under his breath when the move pulls on what he guesses to be superficial scratches.

Derek has stopped attacking the floorboards and has retreated far back enough in the shadows that he's only a dark shape, but Stiles can confirm his theory: the gashes in the wood stop precisely at the doorway. Derek can't go past that.

“Derek,” Stiles whispers, feeling like a broken record.

“You...,” Derek slurs through fangs. Stiles tenses, but he's also relieved that Derek can still talk. He's not so far gone that he's reduced to animalistic sounds.

“Yes, me, Stiles! You disappeared, Derek, your bond– can you tell me what happened? The others will be here soon,” he hopes, “we'll fix this!”

Derek steps up, suddenly bathed in the moonlight. Stiles gasps. The wolf in front of him, the Alpha form in front of him is...it's even worse than Peter's. It's distorted and Derek's face only shows madness and hatred. It could be a trick of the light, but it looks like patches of fur are missing, like he's sick or has ripped it out himself.

“You promised,” Derek drawls out, tilting his head.

It takes a few seconds for Stiles to connect the dots. Then he leans forward and nods, getting his hands in front of him, “Yes! I promised I would see you tomorrow! And I'm here, right? I'm right here!”

“Blood,” Derek states. Stiles looks down, following Derek's gaze. Where his hands just were on the wooden floor, there's bloody hand-prints. Stiles'. His breathing quickens because finally understands.

He glances inside but from this angle he can't see anything. He knows what he'd see though, what the dark forms were and what he fell into. He has seen enough carnage in his lifetime to picture vividly the hunters bodies, mangled past recognition. He carefully doesn't look at his own palms, nausea building up until he can taste bile at the back of his throat.

Still, something doesn't line up. He's trying to figure out what.

“Betrayed,” Derek barks out, making Stiles focus back on him even though a part of his brain is still trying to put the pieces together. What made Derek go feral? Was is only the hunters?

“By the hunters?” Stiles asks in confusion while slowly raising his hands to see them better in the faint moonlight despite his reluctance to do so. He knows what isn't right, but doesn't understand how it can be.

The blood. The blood is cold.

“By you,” Derek roars.

Stiles stares in shock at the Alpha. “What happened to you?” he whispers more to himself.

Derek can't leave the house; if the front door is a no-go, every other exit must be too. Derek is out of his mind but not stupid, he would've tried everything to get out.

He went feral after his bond snapped -the Betas would've felt it otherwise. There's a chance of the two things being linked.

The weirdest thing about the house limit is that there's nothing to show for it. No line of mountain ash or anything of the sort.

But Stiles can _feel_ something. What it reminds him of is on the tip of his t–

He's suddenly pulled back to the afternoon, Derek putting the floorboards in place -beautiful oak wood that Stiles avoids picturing varnished by deep red blood. And then...

 

 

“Stiles,” Derek said without looking up, knowing the tone of his voice would be enough to make Stiles look up from what he was doing.

In a few steps, Stiles was behind Derek, and he could feel the man looking over his shoulder at the concrete slab that Derek was currently covering with floorboards.

It wasn't obvious at first, and Derek would have missed it if he hadn't felt some weird current coming from it, like a displacement of air.

“What's _that_?” Stiles asked. Derek could only shake his head.

“There was a massive bookcase over this spot,” he whispered loud enough for Stiles to hear, “a silver and iron lined rowan bookcase.”

Stiles whistled. “I'd say that was some top notch magic security piece of furniture. Bit overkill even. Whatever's under there must be pretty powerful.”

Derek stared at the weird shadow that had caught their attention. “Can't you feel it?” Silence answered him. He sighed briefly, deciding not to start on the matter of Stiles and his Spark right then, focusing back on trying to remember what must have been put there.

“Darkening spell,” Stiles muttered.

“What?”

“The, uh...darkened area,” Stiles carefully avoided saying _shadow_ , “it's a darkening spell. Meant to make it hard to remember what's under it.” He shuddered at that and Derek had a sudden urge to comfort him. Messing with memories was a particularly touchy subject for Stiles.

“Whatever it is,” Derek said, “we should leave it alone, come back tomorrow with Deaton.” He tapped once on the tiny bulge that showed a hole had been refilled with concrete at one point, probably sealing something in it.

Stiles hummed. “And take a break and a pre- _apéritif_ ,” he said in a lame French accent, his smile faltering when the joke reminded him of Allison. Derek could relate to that kind of incident.

Derek laughed to lighten the mood. “That'd be cheating, wouldn't it? The Pack will be at the loft in an hour.”

Stiles raised his hands above his head and stretched with a groan, and Derek found his mouth suddenly very dry. He got up from his crouch next to the corner of the room and turned to the cooler to get himself some fresh water.

He leaned back against the wall and looked around. There was still a lot to do, but the house was already more than burnt out walls and painful memories. When he turned to Stiles, the human was studying him quietly.

“What?” Derek asked.

“Nothing, just...,” Stiles shrugged awkwardly. “How are you feeling?”

Derek took time to look around again, eyes lost in things he would never see again. He was already starting to picture what he would do with the room, the past and future overlapping in his mind’s eye. “Good,” he finally answered. “Just...nostalgic I guess.”

“Tell me something about this room,” Stiles asked, and from anyone else the question would've been invasive to Derek.

“I had a shelf just for me on the bookcase,” Derek started. “My mom used to say...she said that I wasn't meant to be a Pack official, that I was too much of a free mind. 'Always buried in books, that one',” he tried to conjure up her voice, but it was nothing more than a faint echo in his head now. It still made him smile.

Stiles huffed out a laugh and bumped Derek's shoulder with his own. “We'll make a whole room just for books, big brain.” Derek looked down and blushed. He wasn't used to being more than muscles and claws. Not anymore.

Having this part of the old Derek back, the one that was smart and acknowledged for it, it made him feel good. It made him look at the future with hope for the kind of happiness that he had before the fire.

He thought, with a little embarrassed smile, that he was already building that future with Stiles in a way. And that, more than anything else, made everything seem possible.

 

  
Stiles now regrets not having his phone on him. He really needs to get through with buying a burner phone for this kind of situation, which, yes, is proving to be a recurrent one.

Derek is watching him hatefully and it makes it hard to think of anything else other than the pain, physical and psychological, that he must be in. Stiles turns away from the house and stares into the woods instead.

Magic stone under forgetting spell equals Derek stuck inside the house because of an invisible barrier. Maths may be Lydia's forte, but this equation is pretty straightforward for Stiles.

He might not want anything to do with his own magic, but it doesn't mean he didn't read everything he could on the subject. Knowledge is a form of control.

He should have thought about it in the afternoon, and it makes the ever present guilt in his gut bubble up like acid until he burns from the inside. He had been so focused on Derek that he forgot all about being careful -or obsessive and paranoid, according to some people (Isaac).

Darkening spells. Requiring high level magic, they're rarely used, and mostly to avoid people getting their dirty hands on something dangerous.

And that includes one particular type of artifact. “Wish stone,” Stiles whimpers out. The embodiment of the saying 'careful what you wish for'.

Now, since the fire, there were no incidents involving big ducks, so that means only one thing: it started working again after Derek and Stiles discovered it.

Stiles' heart freezes.

It's highly probable that if Derek had been on his own when he found the dark spot, nothing would have happened. But a _Spark_ had been close enough, actively thinking about the darkening spell and what could be under it. He disturbed it.

Stiles has no idea what Derek wished for hard enough when hunters were chasing him all the way to his old house, but he's pretty sure it wasn't to find himself trapped in his house. All in all his wish would have resulted in absolutely nothing if Stiles hadn't activated the stone in the first place.

So this is his fault. This confirms that his own magic can't be trusted.

This confirms that Stiles only ever ends up hurting the ones he loves. God, he hurt _Derek_.

Stiles turns back to the house and faces Derek's hate, red eyes glowing with a blood-thirst that is so _wrong_ on Derek's face, no matter how twisted it looks in this Alpha form. Derek who had found the courage to stand up and love again after going through hell and fire.

Stiles almost crumbles to his knees right then and there. _He_ destroyed that. As easy as snuffing out a candle flame.

He can't stop the sob that tears itself out of his throat, echoed by the snap of Derek's teeth in empty air and his menacing growl.

 

 

Derek had spent the afternoon wrestling against the electricity and plumbing before giving up. By then, the night had fallen and he could only sit on the front step with a warm beer and a sense of defeat.

“What's twisting your tail, sour face?” a familiar voice came from the trees. Great. Derek liked Stiles just fine -well, more than liked actually- but as much as he enjoyed the guy's sarcasm bordering on full on assholishness, he enjoyed it mostly when it wasn't directed at him accompanied by a dog joke. Especially when he was feeling so down.

“None of you business,” Derek grumbled, stopping himself before telling Stiles to go away because he knew it was the best way to make him do the exact opposite.

Stiles hummed, approaching with his hands in his pockets and sitting down next to Derek. There was something to say about their proximity, how much their relationship had changed to allow this kind of closeness between them.

“See this constellation?” Stiles asked, pointing at the sky. His voice was softer, and Derek relaxed a fraction.

“I see lots of stars,” he answered, because he didn't know much about the night sky and following Stiles finger wasn't easy when he didn't know what to look for.

“It's...kind of like an hourglass...,” Stiles tilted his head before lowering his arm. “Whatever, it's just, I don't remember which star it is but I think one of them is Atlas. My mom could have told you everything about it,” his tone was wistful, something Derek could understand. Feel it even, sitting there on his old house's porch.

“Yeah?” he said, because he needed to show Stiles he was listening.

“Point is, Atlas carries the weight of the world on his shoulders alone.” Derek was pretty sure he knew where this was going.

“As punishment,” he interrupted Stiles, because for one he _knew_ his Greek mythology thank you very much, and also because he couldn't accept what Stiles was going to say.

“ _Whatever_ , dude, that's not the point!” Stiles pouted, making Derek chuckle. He turned to study Stiles' profile, bathed in the distant light of stars seeming so cold because they were burning from so far away.

And Stiles looked– a little bad, if he was being honest, dark circles under his eyes and a slump to his shoulders that spoke of some kind of defeat. But Stiles was still fighting, Derek knew. And he was still beautiful to Derek.

It wasn't only that Stiles was gorgeous or cute, or anything beyond or in between. He was, that was sure; but Derek stopped seeing that months ago to just see _Stiles_. And Stiles had darkness and flaws of his own as everybody had, but he also had loyalty and fierceness, a spark in his eyes that could light anything.

Derek looked up again at the stars, trying to find Atlas when he didn't know anything about constellations. He wondered how Stiles saw him.

Movement caught his attention from the corner of his eyes. He turned to catch Stiles watching him. There was something, something he dared to hope was love, in Stiles eyes. He wasn't brave enough to find out for sure.

“You don't have to do everything alone, you know?”

Derek did know, and he _tried_ , trusting the Pack more and more with missions or just everyday life burdens. But there were things he wasn't ready to share. Except, maybe, with–

“Will you help me, then?” he whispered, voice broken in a way that strangely didn't bother him. A vulnerability he felt safe to show here.

Stiles smiled, a shit eating grin really but his eyes were soft. “You don't even need to ask, buddy.”

Derek huffed, shaking his head with a smile. He felt a new sense of hope ignite in his chest. Perhaps the answer to his struggles with the house was to do it with some company. Someone that was part of this new family he was rebuilding it for, and so much more at the same time.

“You really need to call a pro for some stuff there, though, because I'm pretty sure you accidentally booby trapped every light switch in the house.”

Derek groaned.

 

 

Stiles looks up at the sky and swallows back his next sob. Time to stop the pity party and get to work.

He's going to fix this, whatever it takes, and he's going to do it before the Pack gets here, sees the mess -by that he means _himself_ \- and tries to help with things that are beyond their powers.

It means it's time for Stiles to stop the larger pity party he's got going on and use his magic. Being controlled by your own fear isn't much better anyway; he's aware, though, that this is not the best of situation to deal with when you've been suppressing your powers for so long. There's no telling how it's going to go down.

But this is for Derek, so it's worth it. He just needs to hold on long enough to free him, and then...

Whatever.

Stiles rolls his shoulders, pain pushed back, eyes set on Derek's shadowy form and glowing eyes. Now he finds out what exactly happened with the wish stone and he fixes it.

He still remembers the first and only lesson ever he got with Deaton, before the Nogitsune. The basics -meditative state, expanding of the mind. It'll have to do. He gets as close to the doorway as he can, ignoring Derek's growls and pacing in front of the opening.

Stiles looks down at the scratches that create a clear line on the floor and crouches down just by it, puts his hand on the wooden boards and closes his eyes.

He's been taught that he needs to empty his mind, but that was never really effective with him, so instead he thinks about what calms his never ending stream of thoughts. He pictures Derek working on the house, peaceful afternoons together, the soft talks and watching the sunset sometimes. Looking up at the stars and Derek making up new constellations and stories to go with it.

_We can make our own myths if we want to, who's to stop us?_

Like a balloon suddenly inflating, Stiles feels his mind explode with the release of his Spark. For a second all he sees is stars and he wonders if he's lost himself in space, but then focus comes back and he _feels_ the house under him.

There are pulses of magic coming from the corner of the room where the wish stone is, strings of power that extend from it and fill up the space inside the house like cables of metal supporting a bridge's weight, except it's to maintain the twisted wish.

And then there's Derek. He's like a swirling of dark smoke, emanating negative emotions. Tendrils of rusted gold connected to Derek aimlessly flutter. It takes Stiles a second but the realization hits him like a freight train: these are the Pack bonds. Waves of feelings come from them, Derek's. It's mostly pain.

It echoes the ache in Stiles' own chest, more and more distant as his mind explores.

Fully realizing the extent of Derek's agony, Stiles gets mentally moving furiously. He prods at the barrier, gets shocked by it to the point where he can see his own body twitch from the outside. The boundary runs deep in the very fabric of reality. The air itself feels different, like the invisible wall cuts through something primordial, like...

Cold blood, broken promise, unnatural stillness of the air, the rusting of the broken bonds, Derek...

Time.

From his perspective, Derek wasn't trapped for a few hours. He was trapped for _months_.

 

 

Stiles doesn't stop to ponder on the why and the consequences. He can't bear the idea that Derek was there all this time, in pain, completely feral. He knows it won't be easy to bring him back, even more because of his Alpha's status, but he'll damn try.

Stiles expands his consciousness a little more, and he's surprised to find that it's easy. That it doesn't feel like a stretch but like a drop of oil spreading at the surface of a pool. In another time, he would've been worried about it, now it just felt...exhilarating.

His mind went beyond the house to the woods and the earth, feeling the trees and the life everywhere. He–

Remembers Derek like a slap to the face. Comes back to the house itself, to the creature living inside of it. He tip-toes -as much as disembodied consciousnesses can- to the massive wolf and looks at him curiously. There's a vague throbbing that could come from his own heart, that could be him reacting to Derek's state. It feels too far away to be sure.

Stiles creeps closer until he can _see_ Derek, not just the Alpha's rage but his very essence, so bright and so sad, curled up in a ball, right at the center of the beast.

Impossibly, the wolf's ears twitch, and he turns sharply, eyes boring through Stiles' presence. He shouldn't be able to feel him. To see him. One of the bonds slowly moves to Stiles, like a scared animal. He extends his own hand...

“Make it stop.” The broken whisper almost startles Stiles. In a faraway part of him, something breaks, sending ripples of feelings he doesn't understand anymore all the way to him.

His hand closes on the golden bond. All at once, he can feel everything. And then there's darkness.

 

 

Stiles floats over the forest. It's a bright, windy day, and he feels himself being carried by the fresh breeze until he's right over the Hale house. It's complete, and it's beautiful. From where he is, he can hear laughter.

Someone comes running out of the house, ducking under sprays of water. “Comes on, guys, stop!” the person chuckles. That's when Stiles realizes it's himself, soaked, smile bright.

A black shape leaps out of the wood, a few feet from there, and Stiles wants to warn himself but he has no voice in this plane of existence. He watches the creature tackle him to the ground but...the laughing doesn't stop.

“Stop licking me, it's gross!” he yells through panting breaths, and the voices inside the house whoop and whistle or make sounds of disgust.

“Keep that for the bedroom,” a female voice calls.

Stiles watches who he now knows is Derek as a beautiful black wolf snap his teeth playfully in the direction of the house. His heart fills with something so warm and so big he's not sure if he's sinking or floating even more. Liquid gold, honey, sunlight. That's what it feels like.

Down on the ground, the black wolf nuzzles Stiles' neck, making him chuckle and squirm.

Then this Stiles stops moving and turns his head sharply. He looks straight at the flying Stiles. Derek raises his head, and then Stiles is caught in both their gazes. He's not sure what it means.

The change is so brutal that he stumbles, daylight changing to the darkness of night. The wood under his hands is rough, the clothes on him irritate his skin, and his skin itself is too tight, body heavy and suffocating, he's trapped in it. Everything attacks his senses, it's so overwhelming he wishes for the relief of unconsciousness.

He hears his name being called. He feels arms around him. He smells a familiar scent. It makes the storm ease up and when Stiles blacks out, it's not with fear. He knows he's protected.

 

“You were amazing,” he hears as if through water. He's waking up, he knows, but he wills himself to stay in this blissful in-between just a little longer. “I don't...I don't remember much about being in the house,” Derek's voice continues, a slight tremor in it that betrays his unease. Even if he doesn't remember, he probably still feels the aftershocks of it.

“But then, um...then you were _there_. Not– not just in front of me, I don't know how to explain. I felt you. All around me. And suddenly I was safe,” he says, less hesitant with each word. Stiles learned that if Derek doesn't speak much it's also because he takes the time to chose his words until everything that comes out of his mouth is perfect. Contrary to popular belief, Derek loves words. That's why he tries his best not to mistreat them -and also why he sounds so dramatic most of the time.

So Derek looking for his words, going with the flow of them, it's important in its own way.

“When I came back to myself...,” there he pauses, but it's more confusion than anything else, “I was half shifted, couldn't control it.”

There's a silence. “I was so scared,” he whispers. Then, louder, “I was in pain, I know that, and the bonds were still broken, and I saw you standing there, looking right at me. There was this light coming from you, I have no words to describe it. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and you held it in your hands. You created it.”

Stiles feels his eyes flutter.

“I won't lie, Stiles, at first I was half crazed by the confusion and the pain, and I jumped at you. I thought you were attacking me, because beautiful things aren't always kind, I've learned that the hard way. It's instinct, at this point. But the light in your hand grew and something broke around me, a sort of...glass casing I was trapped in. Just like that, I was whole again.”

Stiles' heartbeat raises, there's a hand in his, skin on skin, it's like electricity running all the way up to his brain, to his heart.

“You're waking up,” there's a smile in the statement, something bright and joyful. “Deaton said you'd still be exhausted, what you did is...pretty amazing, actually, but also very, very stupid and dangerous,” Derek huffs, but it's unsurprised. “I should go tell the others,” he murmurs, and then there's a forehead on Stiles' hand, hair tickling him. Despite what he said, Derek doesn't move away. Stiles is very happy about that.

He groans. He didn't mean to. Derek straightens up, and Stiles immediately misses his warmth, feeling him breathe so close.

“I was so scared,” Derek's voice is hard, “you asshole. You scared the shit out of me, collapsing like that, bloodied and barely breathing! Don't ever do that again, you hear me?” A sigh. Softer, “I love you, Stiles, I spent the last few days regretting not telling you. Whatever you have to say to that...come back to say it, okay?”

And then he's gone. Stiles slips back into sleep.

 

 

 “Hey, wake up Gandalf,” a familiar voice says next to him, way too loud, and Stiles groans before grabbing his pillow to hide his head under.

“No, wake up,” a finger pokes Stiles in the ribs. He takes as deep a breath as his pillow allows, and–

“Shit!” he shouts, immediately wincing at the volume of his own voice, the pillow now clutched to his chest. “Derek!”

“He's fine, thanks to your stupidity.” Scott says, mistaking Stiles panic over Derek's confession for panic over the whole wish stone debacle. “ Worried sick, like the rest of us.”

Stiles turns his head, blinking at the light that stabs his eyes, and sees his best friend's drawn features. “Shit,” he says again but in a whisper. “I'm sorry.”

“Lie,” Scott says even if Stiles knows for sure that his heartbeat didn't waver. His best friend just knows him better than that, can tell from more than a simple werewolf type polygraph test. And he's right, because Stiles really isn't sorry. He got Derek back. No regrets.

“I'll go get him.” Scott gets up. Stiles grabs his hand quickly.

“I'm not sorry for doing it, I'm sorry for making you worry.”

Scott smiles, warmth in his eyes and shoulders already losing some of the tension in them. “Never going to stop you though,” he chuckles. Never gonna stop either of them, that's how they work. Scott squeezes Stiles hand in reassurance and leaves.

Barely five seconds later, Derek appears in the doorway to Stiles' bedroom. He looks tired but healthy.

“Hey,” Stiles can only say, mouth suddenly dry. He sits up in his bed hugging his pillow, suddenly very self-conscious of his position. It's been a long time since he felt awkward in Derek's presence, if ever, but the words he heard while half-asleep still echo in his head.

It feels very real now, it feels like possibilities. It's scary and breathtaking. It's amazing.

Derek sits down next to the bed in the big chair Scott just vacated. The one where he once glared at a book until Stiles called him Miguel, and then glared at the teenager instead. It seems like a lifetime ago, like they were entirely different persons. Derek hopeless and Stiles careless.

Somehow they met in the middle.

Maybe that’s what love is.

“You scared us,” Derek finally says, studying Stiles’ face.

“So I heard,” Stiles answers, glances down at his fidgeting hands. “I also heard that...uh…,” he hesitates, wondering if it’s the best way to go at it. “I was amazing,” he goes for instead, because it leaves Derek the space to repeat or not his words. Stiles looks at him from under his eyelashes.

“You did the impossible,” Derek smirks. Then he takes a more serious face. “Deaton said the stone would have activated sooner or later, and it could’ve been a lot worse than it actually was.”

Stiles feels something loosen in his chest, the ever present guilt relents a bit. And then Derek tilts his head and grins, making Stiles heart miss a beat or two.

“He also said that you broke the stone -which was supposed to be impossible- with the power of love.”

Stiles’ eyes widen and his face heats up. He opens and closes his mouths a few times before stammering out, “You’re fucking with me, right?”

Derek laughs softly. “Kinda,” he admits, “Deaton only said the stone was indestructible. You’re in for a lifetime of teasing from the Pack about the power of love though.”

“Guess I deserve it,” Stiles mutters. Silence falls back between them.

“Are they right? Because Scott told me about the way you felt the loss.” Derek quietly asks, and they just look into each other’s eyes for long seconds. Stiles feels like he’s free falling.

He takes a breath. And then he finds his voice again to whisper, “I love you too,” and the words crack and he doesn't know why but he starts crying.

Derek opens wide eyes at first, mouth hanging open, but his senses tell him that it's not sadness that causes the tears but too much happiness so he laugh, which makes Stiles cry harder because it’s such a beautiful sound. It's kind of embarrassing. He finds that he doesn't really care.

 

  
Derek stands on freshly spread soil, basking in the morning sunlight. The temperature is just perfect, wind rustling in the leaves and bringing his way the scent of the man he loves.

Stiles stands just a few feet away, rambling excitedly about some summer flower or another that they could plant right along this wall or under this window. He's been spending his free time reading about gardening in the last few days.

“Oh man,” Stiles says, “I can't wait for them to be here! Shouldn't they be here already? They're always late, I swear sometimes I should graft an alarm clock on Scott. I just wish we could, like, put a giant sheet on the house to make the big reveal even more dramatic, but it's a house, right? So it's not like they wouldn't have guessed what's under it.”

Derek lets Stiles talk, doesn't point out that the Pack has seen the house already, even if it wasn't finished yet, the night of the wish stone. Stiles says he doesn't remember much about that night either, so Derek doesn't press. For him it's just fuzzy impressions that make him shiver, so he just buries the memory in a corner of his mind and puts a shelf over it to put better memories on display.

He turns to Stiles, considering. They only have a few minutes left before the Pack gets here, seeing as he can already hear Scott's bike take the dirt path they spend the better part of yesterday clearing up.

“Come here,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles arm and making him spin around until they're flushed together, nose to nose. A part of Derek thinks they're both ridiculous with their blushes and short breaths; another part is very proud of his move. It's very black and white movie's romantic.

“You, uh,” Stiles starts, licks his lips as his eyes fall on Derek's, and no other word come out. Derek is never tired of the way he can make Stiles forget how to speak. He's smug about it, even.

If he's completely fair, Derek can admit that he's as flustered as Stiles is, every time they touch feels like the first time.

Derek swallows his own nervousness and moves his head minutely, always cautious to be sure he's wanted. Stiles lets out a shaky breath through his smile, and closes the distance between them until they're finally kissing.

It should have lost its novelty by now, Derek thinks, but it's still the same electric shock as their first kiss. Waves of tingles all the way down to his toes. That's where Stiles’ words go, they rush past his lips and right into Derek, swirling around and wreaking havoc until Derek's own mind is just a beautiful chaos. Until his own calculated words decide it's really more fun to trade places and make backwards sentences.

In different ways, Derek and Stiles love words. In different ways, they're rendered speechless by each other. That, for them, is what love feels like.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and **comments** are so very much appreciated  <3
> 
>  
> 
> **Also, here's the link for the art so you can reblog it![[x]](http://rumi-nyo.tumblr.com/post/161142381975/entry-for-sterek-reversebang-2017-we-turn-to-ashes)**


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